


Skepticism

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Heroism, M/M, Villainy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is John's understanding that Sherlock's tongue is loosened by the drug. Sherlock does, of course, need to address that suspicion. At least, when he regains control of his muscles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skepticism

Sherlock bows his head, his chin resting close to his chest. His mind is swimming in some drug or another (he, at this point, has absolutely no idea what it is). It takes an incredible amount of effort to move his hands, bound behind the chair, so he doesn’t bother.

“Look at _you_ ,” the voice is fuzzy and it takes far longer than necessary to understand what the man is saying, “the great Sherlock Holmes, reduced to a drugged mess. What would _Mycroft_ say?” The man hums. “Oh what would _John_ say.” Sherlock hears, or he thinks he hears, anyhow, a camera-associated sound. “Well we’re about to find out.”

“Why are youuu,” his tongue betrays him, wavering and turning around to the point where he can’t use it properly.

“Doing this?” Sherlock can’t keep his eyes open and he certainly can’t keep his head up. “You’ve ruined my life, Mister Holmes. Killed my boss. Dissolved my organization. Practically homeless, you know. No one wants to hire a hitman when the leaders have all been taken out—“ a text sound, perhaps, interrupts him, “ah. The good doctor has the decency to reply to me.”

Sherlock would like to call John, or at least text him. But he can’t move. Can’t _function_. Not well. (It’s very reminiscent of his encounter with The Woman, except this isn’t a sedative. It burns and rushes and—)

“Not very happy with me, I’m afraid,” the man says (arthritis in the right hand, or, or the left, or maybe...? Well, he has arthritis and, obviously, he worked for Moriarty—). “Tsk, tsk. Not a very bright one, you’ve got, not at all. ‘What’ve you done with him? Where is he?’ Next thing you know, he’ll be telling me he’ll hunt me down.” Fingers brush along Sherlock’s face (he shouldn’t have gone out alone, should have asked John to come with him, but he didn’t want to press be _cause—_ )

“Must’ve been what I’ve done to your face. You’re going to scar on this here cheek. Mm. And don’t you worry, before I kill you, I’ll send some nice photos to the Scotland Yard for you. Yes sir. Your world and my world will be incredibly similar. How _ever_ , Dr. Watson’s world will be ab-so-lute-ly _blown open_. It’ll be like the Fall all over again. For you, anyhow. Moriarty wasn’t the end of us, just the beginning.” Sherlock’s chin is tugged upward, “Then you had to go and lie, and ruin it.”

He wishes that he had the presence of mind to spit. Or to say something witty. But it would come out garbled, the message wasted, and so Sherlock keeps his mouth shut. (And then he worries about John, because he _knows_ what he did was wrong, no matter the reasoning behind it, no matter, no matter—)

A door slams open, causing Sherlock’s brain to scream in pain, his mind palace to shake on his foundations.

“Been looking for him since this morning. Thank you for the text.” Ah, John. Wait. No. _John._

“Look at the boyfriend you’ve got Sherlock, look at him—“ Sherlock pulls his eyes open, his neck feels like a noodle. Oh, dear, a gun in his face (these things need to stop happening, but then again they make life interesting).

“Wouldn’t do that,” Lestrade too, goodness, John’s been on the case (and Sherlock’s quite proud, he can’t lie about that).

It only takes an instant and Sherlock’s brain follows just a tad behind as the man from Moriarty’s syndicate blows his brains all over the wall.

What a twist, as they say.

“John,” Sherlock slurs, and his arms don’t move properly, but he says, “John,” again while Lestrade checks the pulse of the dead man.

“It’s okay, Sherlock, I’m here. S’all right, you daft bugger, should have asked me to come, but I’m Sherlock Holmes and no one can compete—“

“With myyy, mass’ve inell-in _tell_ ect, yes.” Sherlock supplies, his arms falling limp behind him and his head nodding a little. “John, John M’ _sorry_ , sorry, ‘bout the. The thing. The fall. ‘N—“

“I know,” John start checking his pulse and then examining his pupil reaction time. “I know, love, it’s okay.”

And the world freezes.

“You know youuuu. Youuu do that—that thin’ aloud?” Sherlock tries a smile and it seems to work. Because John smiles perfectly.

“I’ll just keep on it then, shall I?” Lestrade waves Donovan out of the room, both hands, he must be quite concerned with privacy, and follows her out. “I’m glad you’re all right Sherlock, Jesus, you worried me.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock drawls again, his eyes fluttering into failure. Pretty sure he’s going to go under again. “Love you. Th’nk you.”

John blends into the background, out of existence, but not before Sherlock catches a sigh and a laugh. “He must’ve doped you up excellently.”

_Need to fix that skepticism. Noted. Implementation necessary._


End file.
